


Blue Soliloquy

by Maunakea



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: And Slicers, Bots and Cons Living Together, But Mostly Bluestreak, Can't Forget The Quints, Eventual Slice of Life, Facing Post Apocalyptic Conditions, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, keeping secrets, with zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26891197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maunakea/pseuds/Maunakea
Summary: The Great War has ended and the Quintesson Occupation of Cybertron is drawing to a close; little more than a pyrrhic victory for the Cybertronian Resistance. In the resulting post-apocalyptic landscape, Bluestreak struggles to survive while guarding a secret happiness.
Relationships: Bluestreak/Thundercracker (Transformers), Megatron/Starscream (Transformers)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 81





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing project with no real end in sight. I just want something with an open world I can keep adding to. Longfic with slow, sporadic updates. I'll update the warnings as needed.

“Rust storm incoming,” somebot yelled, taking cover.

The trenches around the last stronghold of the Cybertronian Resistance were so abysmal in normal conditions that a thick layer of sandy rust was almost an improvement.

 _Hope everyone heard that_ , thought Bluestreak, tapping at his helm with his servo. The comm lines had been jammed for the last few days since the assault started. He considered repeating the shout, but his vocalizer was running hot in his throat and so he stayed quiet.

Bluestreak took the warning to spark and retreated from the outermost dugouts to the more sheltered inner trenches, only pausing to take out a few Quintesson spotter drones with his sniper rifle.

 _Better head to higher ground_ and then Bluestreak remembered a likely shelter spot up the hill which would be his safest bet. _Hopefully no one’s claimed it already_ and he doubled back the way he’d come, climbing higher and higher. He only paused to check for enemy fire.

Another few shots of cover fire for his fellow survivors and then Bluestreak shouldered his sniper rifle and fled higher into the trenches. He moved slower than usual. He was still struggling to recover from his captivity in the work camps and the aftermath of his first disastrous attempt to escape.

Bluestreak hurried as best he could while scratching thoughtlessly at the dull paint splattering his frame. The foul paint clung to him like a rash and itched. Long strips peeled away under his fingers.

The concussive mortar strikes in the distance slowed and then stopped. Bluestreak could already hear the wind kicking up. A massive lighting strike brightened the skies and he saw through the growing haze that the Quintesson shock troops and spotters were also retreating. No one fragged with the dust storms in the Sea of Rust with the expectation of making it out alive. Not without serious protection, at least.

Soon after the skies grew thick with sandy debris until the growing darkness killed the light. _Almost there_ , Bluestreak thought. The wind pelted him in earnest now, stinging his frame and making his plating rattle.

Then Bluestreak heard a confused-sounding engine over the roar of the wind and moments later a **KRAK-BOOOOM** sounded overhead. He recognized the sonic boom as the cry for help it was; the seekers above were unable to locate the safety of the trenches through the growing storm.

Pulling out his flare gun, Bluestreak shot a burning flare directly overhead, which was smothered so fast as to be useless. He tried again, nearly emptying his clip to be noticed and then the skies above grew momentarily darker with the sleek bodies of landing jets.

Thanks to Bluestreak, the last of the Decepticon seekers came roaring down, fleeing the unfriendly skies. Most of them came down in their standard trines, but one was alone.

Bluestreak waved at them as they landed all around him, though he assumed his welcoming gesture was unseen. The billowing clouds of sandy dust the landing jets should have kicked up were ripped away by the screaming tempest, strewn miles away in the span of a single breath.

Bluestreak spotted the likely-looking shelter he’d remembered not far away. It was still empty. “This will work for tonight,” he mumbled to himself, diverting his voice from his internal comm channel to speak aloud. He immediately regretted speaking and spat out a mouthful of sand, but was otherwise pleased as he crawled beneath the large metal slab leaning against the trench wall. His makeshift shelter seemed much like a tent and was larger than he realized. Hunkering down to wait, he could see the seekers around him separating out by trines. He watched them huddle together and vibrate their frames for warmth and energy as was their custom.

“That would be nice,” Bluestreak mumbled again, “having a family to rest with” and then spat out more rusty sand. He didn’t have a family. Thanks to his unfair reputation as a mental case, he knew he wasn’t likely to ever have one.

Resigned to a rough night, Bluestreak stuffed a rag into his filters and pulled out his regular blaster in case of ambush. “Then again, families bring a lot of trouble too, so maybe I’m the lucky one—”

Bluestreak’s voice cut off as he diverted his vocalizer back to the internal comm line that connected to no one. He continued to speak in the court of his own audials and then started rambling on and on about nothing, barely listening to himself and yet the very act of speaking cut down the number of mental circuits available for his currently untreated chronic anxiety — a near crippling condition otherwise — to torment him with, which was the best he could do for himself under the circumstances.

Bluestreak touched his throat, his vocalizer hot to the touch. _Wish I’d done this sooner,_ he thought over the noise of his own hidden words. _Never even thought of doing this before — would have saved me so much trouble._

Before the Quintesson had taken him captive Bluestreak used to speak all of these thoughts aloud in a running stream of consciousness which had caused him all manners of trouble and others all manners of annoyance. Now that he was accustomed to his new internal dialogue — something he’d discovered in sheer desperation as a result of the Quint’s horrific punishments for noise — he was largely silent.

Occasionally he still had the odd outburst; usually when a painful or embarrassing memory would burst through his defenses and rear its ugly head in the forefront of his mind. In a defensive response he would burst out a random phrase or noise or sometimes a sharp movement to force the intruding thought away, replacing it before it could hurt him. This tended to garner him odd looks and scorn, which only added to the cache of painful or embarrassing memories he had to guard against in a never ending cycle of anxiety that only his therapist had any hope of helping.

To his mortification, Bluestreak suffered through any number of mechs commenting positively on the change after his rescue from the camps. None of them were his friends, not really. He could tell because not one of them realized that the word-storm was still in full force. In fact, his affliction was even worse than before, but now he was quiet so they were happier with him.

It kind of hurt, but that was all their lives right now, so Bluestreak didn’t hold a grudge. He’d just started avoiding others more, which wasn’t really much better.

A crack of lightening from high above broke Bluestreak out of his musings, though it didn’t make a dent in the word-waterfall.

The dust storm was at full force now, strong enough to drag a mech skyborne should anyone be foolish enough to challenge it. Bluestreak nervously peeked through a crack in his shelter and saw he’d made the right call to move to higher ground. The wind was so terrible that the rusty sand past the trenches were writhing as if in a liquid state; great waves rose and fell like a broiling sea. Anyone at ground level was likely to be dragged away and buried alive… right now the Rust Sea was more a descriptor than just a name.

Hesitating, Bluestreak checked and sure enough he picked up multiple distress signals from mechs who hadn’t chosen their shelters so carefully. _Can’t go after them in the storm_ and he shrank deeper into his shelter. _I’d just end up needing to be rescued too. Will have to wait out the storm and then help dig them out._

After tucking his blaster close, Bluestreak hugged his knees and rested his helm to get some recharge. His internal dialog changed to reciting gun makes, models, and statistics to help him fall offline. He was about to close his optics when he noticed one of the seekers curled up a few kliks away, the one without a trine.

 _That’s Thundercracker_ , Bluestreak thought, recognizing the distinctive blue and red markings. His paint was dingy and scratched, but otherwise unmarred. _Quints never managed to corner him_ and Bluestreak would have been envious, except Thundercracker looked every bit as broken and downtrodden as the rest of the Resistance. He was so mentally exhausted he’d barely bothered to find cover.

 _His overhang really sucks for shelter and he’s going to have a miserable night._ Bluestreak’s face fell as he recognized the hunched way Thundercracker was huddled and remembered why that particular seeker was resting alone. _He lost his trine_ thought Bluestreak with a rush of pity. _They’re gone now and he has to sleep alone or with one of the other trines._

The Quintesson had captured Starscream and Skywarp early on. The monsters had sent them to science facilities for experimentation. No one knew where; only that those sorts of facilities were too deep within Quintesson space for any hope of rescue. It was more likely than not they were already dead.

 _Wonder why he doesn’t huddle with the others?_ Bluestreak could see any number of seeker trines around him. The Rainmakers were just around the corner and the Coneheads were further up the trench. The latter’s distinctive helm tips were the only thing visible, but it was pretty obvious they were canoodling from the way they were moving. There were other trines too, mechs he didn’t know the names of, though they were further out.

Bluestreak had heard that seekers were particular about their huddles and wouldn’t accept non-trine unless they had to, but he had the sense that they wouldn’t have shunned Thundercracker or sent him away — he just wouldn’t have taken part in any trine-bonding activities.

Then again, Bluestreak knew what it felt like to be a third wheel in someone else’s relationship. _He’s pretty popular with his faction, though. Bet he wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone to huddle with._

Bluestreak saw through the dusty wind and haze that Thundercracker was shaking, perhaps overwhelmed by grief or maybe just the exhaustion of another day without hope of anything better. He knew how that felt, too. Then he saw Thundercracker cuddle up to a cold, miserable wall like he should with his trine.

Bluestreak watched as Thundercracker glanced back at the Rainmakers in the distance. It was obvious that he was thinking about them, but then he looked back at the ground. He was too proud to ask, but too lonely to pretend everything was alright.

Bluestreak recognized that hesitant look and knew it for what it was; hope that was sure to be dashed. _It’s no good to hold on to that sort of thing_. _They never come and you always end up sleeping cold and alone._

It was then that Bluestreak made a decision. _Praxis and Vos were allies before the war_ , he remembered. _Seekers never really bothered me all that much._ It emboldened him and so he left his make-shift tent and hurried over to where Thundercracker was resting under an overhang.

Thundercracker startled and then hunched his shoulders and tried to ignore his visitor, frowning against the wall. If asked he would have demanded his own space and told the interloper to go pound sand.

Bluestreak didn’t ask, though.

Well familiar with this sort of misery, Bluestreak didn’t give Thundercracker the chance to make a scene and thus frag himself over. He just grabbed Thundercracker and dragged him over to his tent, making placating gestures at those shocked and wary wings.

‘Safer to stick together,’ Bluestreak gestured in wing-speak, cloaking kindness in practicality. He was using his door wings in the place of seeker wings, which gave him an odd accent, but his flicks and flares were still very readable.

Thundercracker’s optics went round. ‘You know our language,’ and otherwise couldn’t argue with Blue’s logic. It wasn’t the sort of company Thundercracker preferred, but far better than sleeping alone.

Bluestreak pushed Thundercracker into his shelter and then followed in after. The darkness was deep and pervading and in the shelter only their optics and bioshine pierced the gloom. He ignored Thundercracker’s questioning looks over who would be sleeping where and just pushed him to the deepest (most comfortable) spot and then shoved in close, turning his back to Thundercracker’s front, in the same way he’d seen the trines outside position themselves.

Bluestreak felt Thundercracker startle when he claimed his lap and settled his back to Thundercracker’s front without a single word of explanation or expectation. _This is happening so deal with it_ , his nicely tucked door-wings implied.

Then Bluestreak felt Thundercracker relax against him. A few breaths later and Thundercracker began to thrum, his frame vibrating as he used his turbines in a form of regenesis; turning castoff kinetic energy back into usable energon within his systems. It was a trait unique to seekers but Bluestreak was feeling cold anyway and so he let his engine idle in a returning thrum and nestled in.

“They won’t stay away for long,” Thundercracker said over the howling wind. He didn’t really feel like talking, but was too lonely to stay quiet.

Bluestreak blinked and then nodded over his shoulder. “As soon as the storm passes they’ll come roaring back. Those horrible Quints want to crush the rebellion for good.”

“You are a good shot,” Thundercracker said, remembering all the cover fire the last few orns. He knew he owed the sharpshooter his life more than a few times over these last days of the Resistance.

“You’d do the same for me,” said Bluestreak, and then he re-routed his vocalizer again and started to settle down. He dared wiggle around a bit until his armor notched more comfortably against Thundercracker, who seemed to really enjoy the process.

Bluestreak had only intended to sleep but Thundercracker had made assumptions that, in retrospect, Blue might have expected had he taken more note of all the canoodling around them.

It started with a curious finger tracing along the edge of his door wings. Those were sensitive and Blue’s back plating twitched instinctively. His wings flexed with a hint of playfulness.

“You can feel with these?” Thundercracker spoke into Blue’s audial, his fingertips tracing along the bottom edge.

Bluestreak nodded confirmation. “Same neural attachments as your wings.” His voice was husky, more as a result of constant use, but his plating warmed for the touch.

“They are more like mine then I thought,” Thundercracker murmured, his optics gleaming in the dark. He played with the hinges, his fingers alighting the sensors in graceful circles.

Bluestreak didn’t answer. He reached back and stroked Thundercracker’s wings in response, teasing along all the spots he knew were sensitive on his own frame. He could feel Thundercracker’s arousal in the flaring spread of his wings.

They weren’t so different.

“Your throat is so hot,” Thundercracker murmured, and then sucked at one of his throat seams.

Bluestreak turned and captured Thundercracker’s mouth, never speaking a word, but his mouth and hands demanding all the same. He’d been too long without. He wasn’t going to risk this moment with clumsy words. Instead he wrapped his legs around that sleek hip plating and his intimate panel slid back.

Thundercracker nipped at his glossa, but snuck a peek to see which panel was bared. He was thrilled to see a sleek valve warm and ready. It was dusky blue with white biolights. Thundercracker growled into Blue’s mouth, his lips a fierce grin as he bared his spike. Then he returned his mouth to Blue’s neck as he slid his fingers in, gathering lubricants and running his fingers down over his spike.

Thundercracker was of a larger frame type and it took a bit of coaxing for Bluestreak’s smaller valve to accept his length. He pushed in deep, but there was still more of him.

Bluestreak wanted him just as much, wanted all of him. He triggered his inner valve chamber open, baring his gestation tank to the thick spike-head. He had a bolt and so wasn’t worried about any sort of unintended consequences.

Thundercracker never thought so far as that. He wanted what he wanted and took Bluestreak, patient and gentle, claiming the warm wet little space a little at a time until he was seated full and deep.

Then Thundercracker began to move, gentle at first, growing more confident and then lusty. The tension built between them, their sparks pulsing in hot unison.

Bluestreak wrapped his fingers around Thundercracker’s, pushing back and then riding the plunging spike, his valve clenching, and then Bluestreak’s wings flared, matching Thundercracker’s and then they arched against each other, finding completion together under the howling winds.

“Nice,” whispered Thundercracker, still seated within Blue, feeling the gestation tank’s grip on him. His trine brothers would _never_ have let him in so deep. It was amazing; his wings shivered as it massaged him relentlessly, triggering a secondary release that drained him dry in one glorious secondary overload.

They relaxed and parted then, turning to rest together, listening to the wind rage around them. It was some time later that Thundercracker finally intruded upon their comfortable space with dreaded words. ‘We aren’t anything,’ he warned after coming back to his senses, using his wings to speak. ‘We aren’t — we aren’t even friends.’

 _Seekers don’t cohort with grounders_ , was what Thundercracker had actually meant, which was like saying the sky was up. He didn’t want there to be any confusion later. He wasn’t good for any of that; not for how recent his loss was. Not for the state he found himself most days.

For Bluestreak there was no confusion about that. He knew how brutal such grief could be. He hadn’t come over to make a friend. He had only intended to be of help for the night and the canoodling had been a welcome bonus, and so he answered that declaration of intention the best way he knew how.

Bluestreak blinked slowly, as if confused. ‘What’s a friend?’ he flicked back, exaggerating the gesture as if it was a sort of joke. Which it kind of was, at least in the way Thundercracker had said it; like it was supposed to mean something.

After that Bluestreak turned his back to Thundercracker, not wanting any more talk because he was too tired to make sense. He felt Thundercracker stiffen as if regretting those words, especially if they meant he was to spend the rest of the night alone.

Seekers weren’t meant to be alone.

Bluestreak wasn’t petty, though. He had suffered through so many awkward moments and drawn out silences and rushed words that sounded one way but meant something else entirely so that confusion sometimes felt like home and so he pushed himself back into Thundercracker, feeling that sleek frame relax as they rested back-to-back.

Soon Thundercracker was thrumming, his wings vibrating in the way of his kind and Bluestreak joined in, his engine in idle to match. They warmed each other and Thundercracker’s energy levels crept a little higher. Blue’s door wings weren’t the same but still game — and it _was_ pretty comforting.

“Did you see the sand?” asked Thundercracker over the howling wind, feeling safer now that the lines between them were clear. “Moving like waves.”

Bluestreak nodded sleepily. “Dangerous. They’ll swallow up anyone who didn’t make it to higher ground.”

Thundercracker moved like he was going to answer, but sank into a needed recharge instead. Bluestreak followed after him, the pleasure of the evening seeing him lost in memory fluxes of better times.

The storm was still raging strong when something woke Bluestreak from his recharge. He peered out into the darkness, his blaster close at hand. Movement in the middle of the path outside the shelter caught his optic; something was struggling in the sand.

 _It’s a little whip-snek_ , Bluestreak realized. The tiny techanimal was native to Cybertron; the last of the beleaguered wildlife barely hanging on in the face of endless war. It was struggling through the sands, its blue tail glowing brightly. It had hidden itself under the sand in response to the mortar fire and was making a break for safety, using the storm for cover.

Bluestreak watched it slither against the wind and felt a touch of pity for the little animal. _I remember playing with those before_ … and Bluestreak burst out into a sharp curse “fraggit!” to keep that memory-file from resurfacing. It worked, but he felt Thundercracker jolt against him and winced.

“What is it?” Thundercracker hissed warily and then caught sight of the little animal. His optics widened and then softened for his own memories of sparkling-hood. “Oh — is that all? Those aren’t dangerous.”

“They can whip you with their tails,” warned Bluestreak, with some fondness. “The bigger ones can leave a welt on your plating sometimes.”

“Heh,” and Thundercracker’s optics grew unfocused. “Yeah, I remember. I used to chase Starscream with them, back when we were first batched. He’d scream and fly away — it was hilarious.”

A shadow fell as Ironhide broke cover, heading somewhere with intent. He had his wrist panel to his audial and looked down to see the little snek as he hurried past. With a grimace of disgust, Ironhide brought his pede down on top of the creature and crushed it as a pest beneath his weight.

Bluestreak gasped, horrified. He felt Thundercracker react similarly and stiffen behind him, but the damage was done.

Ironhide vanished heedless into the gloom, hurrying on to where he was needed, leaving the tiny animal writhing in his wake. Its tail had separated and was wriggling vigorously; meant to distract a predator while the snek wriggled away to live another day. But there would be no more wriggling... the last of the snek’s death throes ended as the bright blue tail went grey.

Bluestreak stared at the lifeless little body. He felt his spark sink into his pedes. It was the least of the deaths he’d seen and the lives — mostly Quintesson — lost at the squeeze of a trigger, but for Blue it held the most impact. He felt something change within him; something so big and important that he couldn’t process it yet, but for him it was the beginning of the end.

 _I don’t want to do this anymore_ , thought Bluestreak. He peered around himself, seeing in the gloom the trenches and the death and dying. _There has to be something better than this!_

“That’s slag,” Thundercracker snarled, glaring after Ironhide. “That’s the first whip-snek I’ve seen for ages. What if it’s the last one?”

“Slag,” Bluestreak agreed, feeling numb.

Thundercracker sighed and rolled over, turning his back to the stupid world and all its wretched miseries. Bluestreak followed his example, huddling close.

Come morning, the storm finally blew over. It wasn’t long before the enemy advanced once more. Soon Quintesson shock troops appeared on the horizon, intending to take the survivor’s freedom away and throw them back into the lightless pits from which they’d dared escape.

“Back into the fray,” Thundercracker snarled, checking his weapons.

Bluestreak did the same. _There might be something better, but until the Quintesson are defeated there’s no finding it_ , he thought. He cleaned the sand from his joints, but more importantly his blaster and sniper rifle.

Then Bluestreak helped the rescue crew dig out survivors. As the Quintesson advanced, Bluestreak took position with sniper in hand, while Thundercracker and the last of the seekers took to the skies, the two mechs parting ways with no further thought paid to that one night in the trenches.


	2. The Long March

Something big was happening.

Bluestreak kept his audials open and soaked in the rumours. The Resistance trapped on Cybertron had been aggressively cut off from the outside, so any news was suspect. The only indisputable fact was that the Quintesson were retreating; more and more of their ships were leaving orbit and heading back to Quintesson space. No one was sure what it meant.

“Break into groups and clear the bodies from the outer trenches,” shouted Onslaught, directing their efforts. “Keep them clear of debris the enemy could use for cover!”

Positioned on an inner trench, Bluestreak watched as Swindle, Brawl, Windcharger, Brawn, Grimlock, and several others broke into teams and began re-fortifying the outer trenches as ordered. Further down, Beachcomber, Dead End, and Drift were doing the same.

Bluestreak's optics widened when he saw movement in Beachcomber's cab; what appeared to be a couple of petrol pigeons huddled on his seat cushions. He blinked for the realization that Beachcomber must be collecting injured wildlife as he found them. But that reminded him of the little whip-snek and so he pushed those thoughts away.

Focusing on the task at hand, Bluestreak provided cover fire while the others worked; his quick eye and quicker trigger finger meant he could take down targets faster. He peered down his sniper scope and squeezed the trigger.

**Boom!**

The Quint spotter drone exploded mid-air, twirling in circles until it crashed into the sand with a puff of smoke.

“Nice shot,” called Thundercracker.

Bluestreak smiled and flexed his door wings, then searched for another target. His mind was elsewhere, though. He focused on another incoming drone, but his optic kept straying to the little green dot blinking inconspicuously in the corner of his HUD. It had appeared just that morning and meant only one thing; his gestation tank was reporting his new sparkling was doing well.

 _Bolt must have fallen out of place_ , Bluestreak thought again for the thousandth time. At first he’d panicked. He’d intended to go straight to a medic, but then common sense had taken the wheel. _There’s no medic within easy reach. I’d get myself killed trying to reach another Resistance cell with a real doctor — and for what? For them to tell me what I already know?_

In fact, the more Blue thought about it the more his fear was replaced with anticipation. _This could change everything for me._ He hadn’t shared his joy with a single spark yet. No one knew. He finally decided to keep his mouth shut for a number of reasons, some of them darker than others.

The only mech Bluestreak was considering sharing with was Thundercracker, but he kept thinking about what the seeker had told him; that they weren’t anything, not even friends. What if Thundercracker didn’t want a sparking with a grounder? It felt like a real possibility, which made him nervous. He didn’t actually know Thundercracker beyond that he was an amazing fighter with a keen, sensible mind — and that he was handsome as hell.

Bluestreak had no idea what might happen and so he hadn’t found the courage to say anything. He watched mutely as Thundercracker took to the air a moment later. Circling above, Thundercracker turned and fired at some unseen assailant hiding amidst the debris. Then he whirled and jetted away, leaving Blue admiring his beautiful symmetry. _I hope my sparkling is a seeker frame_ and then he lost sight of Thundercracker entirely as the seeker vanished into the turbulent cloud layer.

Another few shots and Blue crept closer to where his mentor was sheltering. Prowl was having a long, protracted argument with someone — probably Jazz — and Blue was too curious to stay away.

Taking out another enemy target, Bluestreak crept close enough to overhear some of the conversation, however one-sided thanks to the distance necessary to avoid getting into trouble.

Prowl was technically in command of this particular Resistance cell after the loss of Starscream (though Onslaught worked so closely with him that they were more a shared command). Prowl was also the calmest, most collected mech Bluestreak had ever known. It took some effort to find Prowl’s edge, but whoever was on the other line (apparently intending who-knows-what mischief) seemed to have found it. 

“You will _not_ ,” Prowl snarled, his hand cupped over his mouth to quiet his voice. “You can’t know how bad things have been for us here on Cybertron. We’ve been relying on each other to survive like never before. You are out of touch and out of line.”

Bluestreak cocked his helm. He closed an optic and took another shot. **Boom!** Another spotter drone hit the dust. There were so few of them that he could take a short breather between each one. There should be far more with ground troops not far behind, but the horizon was unusually clear.

“If you do that you will lose the Autobots for good,” Prowl snapped, his servos shaking for upset. “I warned you that abandoning the battle for Cybertron to protect that organic planet — I know its name! — at the expense of Autobot lives would have consequences!”

Bluestreak blinked for surprise. _He’s talking to Optimus! There’s no one else he could be talking to!_ He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He carefully took another shot and then listened hard.

“You abandoned us!”

Bluestreak shrank into himself for the accusation, but at the same time his door wings flared. _It’s true — he left us. He left us to save some other planet and abandoned Cybertron to the Quintessons._ And now Prowl was saying what everyone had been thinking; all but shouting those truths at Optimus Prime.

“I know the humans needed you! But did you stop to think that we needed you too? That we needed you more? There are billions of them! There are only thousands of us! The humans can fight their own battles!”

Prowl was still yelling. “Are you seriously telling me that their lives are worth just as much as—” and then he fell silent for a moment. “Did you just tell me they are worth more than ours? They are worth _more_ than your own people?”

Prowl shook his head. “You say that to anyone other than me and you might never lead again.”

Bluestreak heard an angry buzz above and frantically tore his attention away from Prowl. He looked up to see a spotter drone that had snuck up on him. It was just about to transmit their coordinates for a mortar strike but thankfully Thundercracker was paying more attention. His short-range missile blew the drone into a million pieces.

“The Quintesson attacked Cybertron and Earth simultaneously. You had to choose one to defend — I’m not saying you chose wrong! — but if you think you can come back here like _nothing happened_ and just retake command then you have another thing coming!”

Thundercracker flicked a wing at Bluestreak and began circling the Resistance’s dug outs, watching for more drones. Bluestreak blushed, but his audials were still burning because Prowl was still snapping like a junkyard cyber-hound.

“Megatron tried to do the same thing! He showed up like he owned us, but we threw him out on his aft! A tyrant is nothing without an army — nothing without people to lead! The people want their lives and freedoms back and that’s _all_ they want!”

Bluestreak found himself nodding along with Prowl. _Who gives a frag about a bunch of organics several bazillion parsecs away? Why do the organics matter more than we do?_ He’d never visited the organic planet that Optimus Prime seemed so much more concerned about then his own people, even at the expense of losing Cybertron to the Quintessons.

“They don’t care about the old grievances anymore. It won’t work” and then Prowl paused as if he was being talked over. He took a deep breath and then repeated himself even louder. “ **It won’t work!** Megatron was rejected, Megatron listened, and Megatron changed. You can’t defeat him like that — no, you listen!”

Bluestreak heard the audible click when Optimus Prime disconnected the call. “Holy frag” he mouthed and then let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His wings were shivering for stress.

“Bluestreak,” Prowl called up to him. “You didn’t hear any of that.”

“No sir,” Bluestreak replied, ducking his helm. He fell quiet, embarrassed for being caught listening and blushing hard for it.

Just then Onslaught rounded the corner, tromping towards Prowl. He was scowling behind his blast mask and his gravelly voice ended the quiet moment. “I appreciate you porting that conversation to me.”

“Nothing will come of it,” and Prowl stood up and left the shelter he’d been crouching in. “Optimus doesn’t understand what we’ve been through these last few years. He will come around.”

“He better,” Onslaught said with a hint of threat. “Now tell me he at least gave you some decent intel.”

“It’s confirmed,” Prowl replied, sounding more optimistic. “Quintessa is under attack by an unknown enemy, reportedly of their own making. Possibly another slave revolt. Their three battle fleets have been recalled to Quintessa — they’re leaving!”

***

It was deep in the night, a few days later, when a drowsing Bluestreak was awakened by an emergency broadcast in his HUD.

 _That’s an Autobot channel_ and Bluestreak touched his helm. He sat up in a hurry and further startled when a deep, well-loved voice sounded in his audials, calling for all Autobots to break their positions and convene on his signal.

Optimus Prime had returned.

 _We can’t leave now_ , and Bluestreak peered down through the trenches at the light from the enemy encampment some miles away. _We just barely drove them back, but they will attack again as soon as they recover_. _This is just a short reprieve!_

There had been some interesting troop movements that suggested that Optimus Prime’s intel on the Quintesson was true. A few of the contingents had pulled back, but otherwise the Acquisition Fleet was still in orbit and the attacks continued without pause. Abandoning his post would mean some of his friends would surely die come morning.

Bluestreak got to his feet and looked around for the other former Autobots. He turned in a circle, unsure what to do. He certainly didn’t want to leave the rest of his companions to their fates when he knew the next enemy attack was mere hours away.

Out at the perimeter of the trenches, Ironhide was transforming. Bluestreak wasn’t surprised when Ironhide peeled out without a word and headed towards the coordinates Optimus Prime had transmitted.

Then Optimus Prime spoke again, repeating his orders. “I have tracked Megatron’s location and am preparing to engage him come first light—”

Bluestreak couldn’t believe his audials. _He’s planning on restarting the war between the Autobots and the Decepticons!_ He wrung his hands in disbelief. _He can’t do that!_ He turned again, trying to see where Onslaught and Prowl were.

Optimus Prime was still speaking. He sounded much the same as ever, his confidence and assurance warm in Bluestreak’s audials, but what he was actually saying meant so little to Blue that he barely processed it.

“—aggressive raids against the energy resources of Earth must be stopped at all costs. Megatron must be brought back to Earth to face their justice for his crimes against their people. I am here to ensure that all further attacks on their world will cease immediately and hereby order all Autobots to—”

 _He’s still trying to protect the organics_ , thought Bluestreak and he bristled, unsure how he felt about all of that.

Yes, the raiders had standing orders given by Megatron to any Resistance members outside of Cybertron that could reach any source of energy and return with desperately needed supplies; but without those shipments of energon the Resistance would have collapsed completely. At best they would all starve into deactivation, at worst they would be re-enslaved by the Quintesson.

It was simply a matter of _us_ or _them_.

Bluestreak sank back down and sat on a huge slab overlooking the trenches below. He’d sworn an oath to Optimus Prime and he’d spent his life fighting Decepticons and upholding his beliefs. But sacrificing their futures and lives for other species was a newer mandate from Optimus Prime after the last Big Push, and that Optimus had chosen _aliens_ over his own suffering Autobots rankled Blue’s plating something fierce.

Now Bluestreak could see other Autobots stirring across the entrenchment. Some of them were looking around much as he had, trying to make sense of the Prime’s orders and more specifically, if they should obey them. He covered his helm with his hands, shaken to his core.

But for Bluestreak, one thing stood out above the conflict brewing in his spark between his old beliefs and his new reality _._ _It’s not just me anymore. I have to take care of my sparkling — I won’t be a part of any more wars._

Dropping his hands into his lap, Bluestreak sucked in a deep breath and faced the truth. _I don’t care about the organics or any aliens. My life matters too. Cybertron is more important to me than any other planet. I want to live a normal life again. I just want to go home…_

Bluestreak hesitated and then made a decision. _I won’t do it. I won’t help him restart the war between the Autobots and the Decepticons. I just can’t do this anymore._

It was like a weight came off Bluestreak’s shoulders, tumbling down his back and away, setting him free… but there was still one thing left to do if he wanted peace between the factions to endure. He closed his optics and steeled himself and then opened a comm line in his HUD. It was a newer emergency channel that was meant to be used only in dire need. It connected directly to Megatron himself; a direct line given to each and every one of them.

“This is Megatron — speak quickly.”

Bluestreak could hear weapons fire in the background; that particular Resistance cell was still under attack. He sucked in a breath and then exploded into a non-stop verbal barrage that didn’t end until Megatron was forced to mute him.

“I understand,” Megatron said gently, adding, “I appreciate the warning, Bluestreak. Please know that you are one of many who have contacted me about the plot against my life. I thank you all for your faith in me.”

“Please don’t hurt him,” Bluestreak begged, his door wings trembling. He pleaded for mercy for the father figure he never had but that Optimus Prime had become for him all those long years of war with the Decepticons.

Megatron didn’t hesitate. “I assure you that I will do everything in my power to spare his life while defending my own — we are all in this together. Even those of us whose priorities are… questionable.”

Bluestreak whispered his thanks and disconnected the comms. He felt like a scum-sucking traitor, but at the same time a wave of relief left him feeling weak at his knee struts.

Bluestreak sat still for some time after, his rifle lying forgotten in his lap. His mind churned over and over and his throat burned. This time was different. The word-waterfall into his nowhere comms couldn’t quell the storm in his processer. Finally his optics caught on the little green light in his HUD and he focused on that instead; his future instead of his past. His spark slowly calmed and the hours passed until a bright ribbon of light began to crest the horizon, heralding the morning.

When the dawn arrived, Bluestreak wasn’t surprised to learn that Megatron and his Resistance cell had driven Optimus Prime away. Blue was relieved to hear from Prowl that Megatron’s cell had done so without anyone losing their lives for the attempt.

Optimus Prime was livid; much as Megatron had been when something very similar had happened to him years ago at the start of the Occupation. The difference between them was a matter of time. Megatron had had plenty of time to face that reckoning and change the course of his life to suit the new reality and in doing so reclaim leadership of the survivors.

And of the former Autobots — all of whom had received orders to defect in the night — only Ironhide had followed through and abandoned his post. It was a good thing that most remained, because the dawn revealed the Quintesson troops massing in the distance.

“Glad to see you still with us,” said Thundercracker, landing gracefully on the ramparts above Bluestreak’s position. “I would have missed you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bluestreak replied, his optics harsh as he chose his first target of the morning; a sergeant-general that foolishly stuck his head up over the throngs of his troops. “Not until we’re free.”

**Boom!**

The sergeant-general’s head exploded into a bloody spray as the forward-marching orders were given and the enemy began to advance.

“Into the fray,” whispered Bluestreak, squeezing the trigger over and over.

**One Week Later…**

“You see them?”

“Yeah,” said Bluestreak, sighting down his rifle’s scope. “But something’s wrong.”

“Be more specific,” demanded Onslaught, squinting through the morning haze. His orders were brusquer than usual due to stress. The Resistance cell that they belonged to had been pinned down for days. They had received sporadic and conflicting reports coming in from every single other cell. Everyone was suffering increased assaults and yet the bulk of the Quint’s Acquisition Fleet had abandoned Cybertron entirely, leaving only a token force behind.

“They’re deploying some new troops,” Bluestreak answered and then hesitated. “But that’s not what’s wrong.”

“More specific,” Onslaught insisted again.

Bluestreak peered through his scope again and tried to make some sense of what he was seeing. He frowned as the enemy troops dragged some strange mechs to the forefront of their gathering force with great difficulty.

It was frustrating that they were still fighting at all. Bluestreak remembered cheering with his brothers-in-arms when the massive slave ships had left orbit a few days prior. The end was finally in sight, but the fighting wasn’t finished yet and suffering these last few days was nerve-wracking.

Sensing defeat, the remnants of the Quintesson army were pressing their attack and now they were committing to a final push. They’d formed lines as if preparing to overrun the survivors, but the soldiers being dragged to the forefront of the lines looked… out of place.

“They’re bound and muzzled,” Bluestreak finally reported, still puzzled. “I can’t see their faces.”

Bluestreak’s comms buzzed as Prowl broke in. “They could be captives to be used as living shields. They will need to be rescued.” His voice carried the weight of command, but Onslaught countered him without reservation.

“No,” Onslaught interjected over the comms. “They aren’t Cybertronian. They get a bullet like the rest of them.”

“Can I get a confirmation of their species?” Prowl insisted, holding his ground.

Bluestreak shook his helm. “I can’t say for sure—”

“Slicers!” said Swindle confidently. “I’d know those skinny freaks anywhere!" and he headed down to get a better look. He was their unofficial scout since Jazz had left to help support a struggling brother cell to the north.

“There are only a handful of them,” said Thundercracker as he squinted at the throngs of enemy soldiers gathering out past the trenches. He didn’t care about the captives; slicers were a cannibalistic tribe that normally lived in the wastelands. They were tolerated as a species native to Cybertron, but despised for their tendency to attack and eat travelers. “Why do we give a slag about slicers?”

While Prowl and Onslaught were the cell leaders, Thundercracker was the de facto commander of the seekers. He was currently perched on the highest reaches of their defensive fortification. His question seemed valid, but Prowl was unmoved.

“They must be significant or the Quintesson wouldn’t bother with them,” Prowl said, his tone polite but firm. “It would be unwise to disregard them.”

Onslaught grunted agreement.

Swindle, having scouted them out, returned to the trenches in a hurry. “They’re slicers all right, but something stinks and I mean that literally. I caught a whiff of them on the way back; like congealed oil and rotting circuits.”

“Get ready,” warned Bluestreak, still sighting down his scope. “Whatever’s happening — it’s starting now!”

Onslaught and Prowl began giving orders as the survivors braced themselves for the next assault. The front liners took point while the mid-level fighters readied their blasters. Thundercracker instructed his fellow seekers and they claimed perches around the mid-levels, ready to take to the skies at a moment’s notice.

Bluestreak took a better position and largely tuned out the resulting explosion of commands and chatter; his role was well-defined and he played his part without need of much direction.

Instead, Bluestreak watched through his sniper scope as the bulk of the Quintesson troops fell back thirty paces, isolating the group of slicers and their handlers. He watched as the slicers were directed towards the Resistance cell and then released all at once; the handlers sic’ing them towards the Resistance like attack dogs.

It was obvious to Bluestreak that the handlers expected the slicers to charge forward and attack whomever they were currently facing towards — which was the entrenched Resistance fighters. The handlers looked surprised when the slicers immediately turned as one and attacked _them_ instead.

Bluestreak would have laughed, but he saw the slicer’s faces when they were freed from their muzzles. Their eyes were dead and their mouths upturned in a rictus grin from decay. It was a very specific sort of look; instantly recognizable as viral. They behaved as infected and turned on their handlers, biting and snapping.

 _They actually did it_ , Bluestreak thought, suddenly suspecting why the Accusation Fleet had abandoned the fight to return to and defend Quintessa. There had been rumors for years about Quintesson super weapons being used on neighboring systems — other planets the Quintesson had intended to enslave. Blue shrank back into himself. _They’ve sacrificed their soldiers as fodder to release their horrible virus on us! This is their way of making sure we don’t survive to enjoy victory!_

“Frag!” roared Onslaught, having reached the same conclusion. “We can’t let those things get loose! They’ll increase their numbers and then come chewing on us next!”

Prowl jumped down from his vantage point, landing next to Bluestreak. “Warn Megatron and the other cells what’s coming,” he instructed Onslaught and then changed the mode of his own rifle, attaching a scope.

“Avoid melee combat!” Prowl shouted. “Blasters and range weapons only and concentrate your fire on the infected!” and then he took position and followed his own orders.

Behind them, Thundercracker exploded into the air — the safest place to be now — along with the rest of the seekers and started strafing through the crowds of frantic enemy soldiers and snapping zombie slicers alike.

The chaos grew and grew as Quint troops fell under the teeth of the infected, only to rise back up as the grinning dead. Bluestreak squeezed his trigger and one of the slicers dropped, its helm exploding. He fired again and again, all headshots, but the infected were busy chasing after the Quint soldiers and they were losing track of them in the billowing clouds of dust.

“This isn’t a normal attack,” Prowl called to Onslaught, while firing shot after careful shot. “This is their final volley. There’s a good chance the enemy troops here had no idea this was going to happen. They’re finished.”

Onslaught grunted agreement. “Let’s hope they don’t take us with them—” and then he straightened and tapped his helm, demanding that the voice over the comms repeat themselves.

Onslaught whirled in place, fingers splayed for shock. “Megatron has ordered the activation of our electron bombs! He’s asking all the cell leaders to confirm the order.”

Prowl froze, his door wings folding against his back in dismay. “Those are weapons of last resort — the fallout alone will be devastating!”

“So will the infected if they spread,” Onslaught countered, already warming to the idea of unleashing weapons of mass destruction as opposed to a horrendously dangerous zombie hunt. He pointed at the chaos spreading in all directions. “It’s now or never!”

A familiar voice broke in a moment later. “That is an inadvisable course of action that will cost many lives,” declared Optimus Prime with utmost sternness. “We must give the Quintesson the chance to resolve this conflict peacefully.”

Optimus Prime was holed up some distance away from the Resistance cells, along with Jazz, Bumblebee, and Ironhide. He was reluctantly regulated to the sidelines for his near-complete lack of troops and supplies, having underestimated the sheer brutality of the Quintesson forces that now kept him from returning to Earth. He was monitoring the comm lines and immediately condemned the use of WMDs as their use was forbidden by the Tyrest Accord. He wasn’t wrong, but at the same time — and per usual as of late — he wasn’t right either.

“I don’t agree,” said Prowl. He closed his optics for a moment and then opened them. His door wings slanted forcefully. “It’s time to finish this.”

Onslaught nodded briskly, the long-term consequences be damned. He touched his helm and gave their confirmation codes, spelling out the letters and numbers carefully. He grunted acknowledgement and reported that the other cell leaders had done the same.

Megatron was keying in the final codes now.

Prowl and Onslaught turned as one and shouted for the rest of the Resistance cell to gather their weapons and prepare to move out. The first volley — conventional bombs only — were incoming shortly to soften up the enemy lines and then all the Resistance cells were to advance on the enemy, working in concert. They would join up in a massive circle maneuver, herding and entrapping the Quintesson troops at a designated area. Once they were forced into a centralized location, the electron bombs would end the fight for good while hopefully insuring that none of the infected escaped destruction.

 _This is it_ , thought Bluestreak, his fingers clenching down on his rifle for fear. _This is the final battle._

**24 hours later…**

The hush after the last volley of electron bombs matched the gloom as dust-ash filled the skies, blotting out the stars. In the aftermath of the last battle the only movement was mechanical; similarly-painted frames crawling out from under the rubble.

Then Megatron’s booming voice cut through the gloom, amplified across the battlefield through the Resistance’s shared comm lines. All across the devastation sparks rose at the sound of his voice.

“ **Brothers, we are victorious! The last of the Quintesson have fallen**!”

A raggedy cheer rose from the darkness. No one questioned how Megatron greeted the survivors as brothers-in-arms, speaking to them as more a comrade and less the supreme commander that he most certainly was.

“ **The closest shelter is Iacon and everyone is to regroup there. Combaticons take point, Dynobots to the flanks, Wreckers defend the rear. Constructicons are responsible for the wounded**. **Everyone else get moving and call out injured where you find them. The strong are to carry the weak**.”

“ **No one is to be left behind!** ” and Megatron’s voice cut out.

“Iacon,” Bluestreak mumbled, clutching his sniper rifle close. He turned in a nervous circle, struggling to see through the rising nuclear fallout. Finally he caught sight of other bedraggled mechs — the last survivors of Cybertron — staggering towards a city in the distance. Almost everyone heeded the call, with few exceptions.

A hand clapped Bluestreak on the back between his wings. He yelped and whirled to see Bumblebee’s sooty but otherwise cheerful face brighten the gloom. “Hey Blue, glad to see you’re okay!”

The clouds of smoke and radioactive dust had hidden Bumblebee from view, though the olive paint splattered over his frame — the color an indicator of which slave labor camp he’d been interned — didn’t help any.

“Yeah,” said Bluestreak quietly, “I guess I am,” though he didn’t feel okay. He felt light-headed thanks to the momentous forces that had thrown him to the ground and covered him in rubble. Thankfully the little green light in his HUD held strong.

After wiping his face with the back of his hand, Bluestreak mumbled “we’re going to Iacon to regroup” and then took a few tentative steps along with the rest of the shuffling mechs in the distance, heading towards the city.

“You should come with us,” Bumblebee insisted, his normal yellow hues peeking out from under the layer of olive paint splatter. “We’ll need you when the Decepticons attack.” The time spent in the work camps had done little to dampen his indomitable spirit and he pulled on Bluestreak’s arm.

Bluestreak pulled back, stung by the accusation. The stress of the last few hours and the startle caused him to lose control of his voice. He began to babble, his words coming faster and faster.

“There aren’t any Decepticons anymore, remember? Or any Autobots. We’re just Cybertronians now because the invasion changed all that. So there’s no point in fighting anymore and besides—”

“That is not true,” said Optimus Prime, appearing out of the gloom. “Our war against the Decepticons continues. It is just a matter of time before they return to their brutal campaign against Cybertron and the Universe. Only the Autobots stand between them and innocent lifeforms. We must regroup and prepare for the inevitable.”

Optimus Prime’s bright colors were unmarred. He had been off-world during the worst of the Occupation. His frame, though as smoke-tinged and dented from the last battle as any of them, bore none of the cruelties that so many of them had faced. That was no small part of the reason Megatron was giving the orders to the troops on the ground today.

 _Don’t care about aliens and war_ and Bluestreak was no longer ashamed for the thought. _I just want to be free to live again_. It went against everything he used to fight for, but these last few vorns had changed him. They had taught him to fear anything alien and for good reason. He was sick of all the pain and destruction and death.

Above them, lighting exploded across the sky. It momentarily brought to stark light the cataclysm that was the final battleground of the Acquisition Wars and the end of the second Quintesson Occupation of Cybertron. This last battle and the corpse-strewn battlefield, of which they’d only barely survived, had changed everything forever, for the good and the bad.

The smoke was so thick and noxious that it obscured the city of Iacon in the distance, where Bluestreak and everyone who could were still heading towards. The debris was still settling from the massive bombs that had been the final volley in the last battle against the Quintesson. It would be a long time before the skies cleared.

“I don’t want to go with you,” said Bluestreak, too sick of everything to hide his true feelings. “I want to stay with the others! They are going with Megatron to Iacon for shelter, because—”

“Megatron is _not_ in charge,” said Optimus Prime, interrupting to get a word in edgewise. His disapproving voice boomed over the wind howling over the blasted landscape. Smokey clouds billowed around him. “I am giving you a direct order. Fall in line with the others, we are leaving.”

Bluestreak flinched, but then shook his helm and the words kept coming. “No sir,” he said without pause. “I am going with the others, because Megatron said the war is over and he’s kept his word on everything else so I believe him sir, I believe him when he said there aren’t any more factions — no Decepticons or Autobots. He said we are all Cybertronians now and that we all have to work together against the monsters attacking us—”

“Bluestreak, I am not asking. Now I am giving you one last chance; fall in line with the others or face the consequences for disobeying orders.”

But Bluestreak wasn’t listening anymore. He knew that Optimus Prime was not actually going to do anything to him beyond being very, very disappointed because Optimus Prime was better than that, but he just couldn’t follow that order.

So Bluestreak stopped listening to what was left of the Autobots. He pushed away from them instead. He turned to leave, his itchy brick-red paint-splattered frame stumbling away even as Bumblebee dug in his heels, slowing him down.

“Come on,” begged Bumblebee as he pulled on Bluestreak’s arm again. “Just trust Optimus. We are regrouping at our home base in the Manganese Mountains. Just come with us.”

“There’s no fuel there,” said Prowl disapprovingly, appearing behind Optimus Prime without warning. Prowl’s hands were on his hips and he was covered in the same brick-red paint splatter. “You have no supplies or supply lines. After the last Quintesson attack your mountain base is little better than a hole in the ground. It would be foolhardy to leave the main body of our combined forces like this.”

Jazz appeared a moment later. “Come on Prowler, don’t be so glum. We’ll make it work somehow.” His frame remained untainted as the Quintesson had never managed to capture him. He stood next to Optimus and it was clear he wanted to go back with them, but wouldn’t leave without Prowl.

“We will face difficulties in the coming days,” agreed Optimus Prime, standing tall and strong. “But no sacrifice is too great to protect the innocent from the Decepticons.”

“We’re with you Optimus!” enthused Bumblebee, raising his fist.

That appeared to be a matter of option. Prowl, although cowed now that he was standing next to Optimus Prime, certainly wasn’t interested in platitudes. He respected and loved Optimus but still refused to back down. “There’s no plan, no supplies, and no sense in leaving—”

That was all Bluestreak needed to hear.

“I’m not going with you — I’m staying with the others,” and Bluestreak freed his arm from a protesting Bumblebee. “The war is over” he shouted over his shoulder “so stop trying to fight the future” and then hurried off into the gloom, leaving his former faction behind.

 _Don’t want to fight anymore_ , Bluestreak thought, his optics watering for the smoke. _So sick of aliens and war and death_ and he followed the trudging mass of mechanicals towards Iacon.

The little green light in Blue’s HUD glowed brightly.

***

The next few hours were brutal.

Bluestreak’s energy levels were desperately low, moreso then most. He touched his midsection, his fingers splayed. A moment of comfort stolen in a ditch with a near-stranger had consequences he hadn’t expected, but had since fully embraced. It was both secret and joy; motivation to stay alive and free.

 _No more fighting for me_ and Bluestreak struggled onward, unable to see the multitude of fellow soldiers all around him. Fear had him keeping strict comms contact, responding to all pings for his location because otherwise no one could see him. The gloom was unforgiving; making it seem like he was alone.

It was dangerous to go alone.

The fallout clouds stank of ruin. They burned through his ventilation systems and stung his optics. He forced one foot after the other, watching his energy levels fall dangerously.

Frightened of falling behind, Bluestreak was just about to comm for help when he stumbled across another group of stragglers.

It was the Combaticons and seeing them lifted Bluestreak’s spirits. _Must be making better time than I thought. Either that or they are too weak to take point like Megatron ordered._ He shouted a greeting at them and then cried out that he was too low on energy to make it to the city.

The Combaticons grunted monosyllable replies, saving their last dregs of energy for the march to Iacon. Their massive forms stood darker against the dimly lit landscape as they trudged onward. They were too exhausted for anything more than marching, but Onslaught managed to find a half-crushed energon goodie in his sub-space and handed it over without a word.

Bluestreak accepted the gift with a cry of thanks and devoured it. He followed after Onslaught, keeping to his commander’s shadow with some effort, exhausted but terrified to be left behind.

There was more than dying Quintesson troops lurking in the darkness.


	3. The Dust Settles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of torturous captivity and rescue.

**Months Later…**

Systematic chaos was still chaos.

Bluestreak watched from his uncomfortable cot as the mechs around him prepared for their day. The shelter where he was currently living was clean and well-organized, but still in an uproar as dozens of mechs hurried here and there, grabbing supplies, taking turns using the facilities, and arguing over who got to take a shower first.

Bluestreak sighed and considered joining the throng. _Could use a shower_ , he thought, but otherwise didn’t move. His frame was dusty and his joints were gritty and he was well overdue for a decent wash. The problem was there were lines for absolutely everything.

“I have to be at work in fifteen clicks,” Sunstreaker complained loudly and a shoving match broke out. The tussle was quickly sorted by more level-heading mechs; Ironhide and Inferno weren’t to be trifled with.

“Nobody is more important than anybody else,” Ironhide shouted over the anxious crowd. “You get in line same as the others!”

Inferno backed him up with a shouted “I’ve got your cold shower right here!” and waved his firehose at the crowd, most of whom laughed or waved off his offer. Some eyed him speculatively; those mechs who had higher positions within the city and needed to look presentable.

The quarrel ended as quickly as it started, which wasn’t surprising as everyone knew each other. Most of the mechs in the shelter were former Autobots and all of them accustomed to far worse conditions. As rough as things had been the last few vorns having access to fresh fuel, showers, and a relatively safe place to sleep still felt like luxury to most of them and they made it work.

 _Everyone has somewhere to be_ _except for me,_ thought Bluestreak bleakly. His life felt like it was currently on hold and he wasn’t sure why. It didn’t help that he had no motivation to do anything beyond eat his daily rations and watch the world struggle to resemble something normal, but his therapist had assured him that feeling this way was normal — a form of decompressing after what had happened to him.

Bluestreak settled himself back against the shelter wall. His pedes dangled over the side of his cot. _Should do something today,_ he decided, though it seemed best to wait for the crowds to clear. _Shower first, then figure out what to do after._

Squirming around, Bluestreak ended up sliding back onto his cot to get comfortable while he waited. He folded his door wings and ended up dosing back off. His recharge was shallow, but just deep enough to skim the surface of a common memory flux.

_Bluestreak hung limply from the great hook outside the work camp he'd tried to flee, strung up with other would-be escapees as a warning to the rest of the captives. The message was clear; attempt to escape and suffer until deactivation._

_The others dangling with him were already dead, but Bluestreak was still hanging on. In his fevered dreams he kept hearing Prowl call his name and so he forced himself to keep venting. Hours became days and then deep in the night a voice broke through the haze._

_“Here’s another one, sir!”_

_“Keep your voice down,” snapped a familiar raspy voice. “We are here for the living, not the dead.”_

_Bluestreak realized that the voices whispering in Cybertronian were preparing to raid the work camp to attempt to rescue the slaves within. He tried to open his optics, to speak, to move, but only managed a full body twitch. It was enough. He may as well have screamed for the sudden flurry of frames around him._

_“He’s still alive!”_

_“Help me get him down and for the last time — keep your voice down, Siren!”_

_Bluestreak felt himself lifted off the hook, could feel his internal fluid fill the hole the hook left in his back and stream down his legs. He moaned as he was laid out over the ground and fussed over. The strangers patched his wounds and poured some weak grade fuel down his throat to keep him processing._

_A surly voice spoke for the first time. “He’s not a Decepticon so what’s the point?”_

_“He’s coming with us,” the raspy voice replied, with no hesitation. “I will carry him myself. Seriously, Vortex, did you think we were coming only to liberate Decepticons?”_

Bluestreak shivered awake. He sat up in a hurry and rubbed at his face. The powerful, raspy voice in his memory was still speaking, only from the vid-screens hanging from the ceiling. The news station was replaying an interview with Megatron from previous months.

“—my methods harsh? Yes, I’ll concede that they are. But in the four million years that I was leader of my faction, the Decepticons _never_ starved. No one is starving to deactivation on my watch!”

Bluestreak watched the screen until the program shifted to a different topic. Megatron's voice had likely triggered the memory-flux, though the memory was never far away, frequently coming back to haunt him.

 _I should talk to Rung about it,_ and Bluestreak's spark lightened at the thought of him. The first few days after the last march to Iacon had been rough. His vocalizer had been close to burning out and then he'd stumbled over a group of mechs that had come in out of the desert to Iacon. They had fled to the wastes and hidden themselves there, only emerging once the Quintesson were defeated. Among them were softer-plated scientists like Wheeljack, but most especially his psychiatrist Rung.

Having spotted a dust-swept Rung, Bluestreak had flung himself into their midst and lifted the little mech right off his pedes. He'd enveloped Rung in a massive full-body hug. "I missed you too," Rung had said, returning the embrace. Then he'd felt how hot Bluestreak's throat was and concern leapt into his optics; the first mech who'd even realized what a downward spiral Bluestreak was suffering. "You're off your medication," said Rung and he'd immediately rummaged through his subspace for some samples.

The medication was still sitting in Bluestreak's subspace, untaken. He didn't know if it was safe to take in his condition. He hadn't dared ask at the time and now he was waiting until his first appointment with Rung to tell him about his sparklet, which was a few days away. But it was such a relief to have someone who understood and Blue had made an extra effort to rest his vocalizer. It was still too hot, but not as bad as before and the last few days had left him feeling more hopeful.

A gurgle in his fuel tank reminded Bluestreak he was due for his next ration. He winced when he realized the green light in his HUD was blinking insistently; his energy levels had dropped below optimum levels.

Thankfully the line for the morning ration was starting to empty out. Abandoning his cot, Bluestreak took the opportunity and made a dash for it. He stood behind Tailgate, Seaspray, and Misfire and watched as they offered their wrist panels one by one. The city drones scanned each mech and then handed out small portions of energon.

When it was Bluestreak’s turn, he offered his wrist panel for the drone and watched his ration pour out into a cup, hot and steaming. “Compliments of our city’s protector,” said the drone.

Bluestreak nodded and accepted his cup. He wandered back and sat on his cot to drink his ration, taking care not to splash. He gave a little sigh of relief when the green light stabilized as his energy levels rose. He knew he needed every single drop, though he was still in the early stages of a very long creation process.

 _You could have just said ‘compliments of Megatron_ ,’ thought Bluestreak while sipping his ration, _because that’s more the truth._ That they had anything to eat at all was directly due to Megatron’s bullying of the Galactic Community. His sabre–rattling and threats of open warfare due to starvation had resulted in mercy shipments of energon and medical supplies, enough to keep everyone fed for the next few months.

 _It’s decent grade too_ and Bluestreak took another sip. He savoured the taste, rolling the sweetness over his glossa. He knew he should have a double ration thanks to his condition, but hadn’t dared visit a medic. He wasn't sure that his privacy and wishes would be respected.

The larger problem was that the standard response to a mech in his condition during the war had been exemplary medical care followed by the war machine claiming his unfortunate new sparklet. A short stint in a maturation tank and a downloaded ‘welcome to life now here’s your gun’ info pack would be provided along with a spark-felt ‘good fragging luck staying alive longer than thirty seconds’ shoulder clap from a commanding officer and then off to a battlefield with death not far behind. It was standard practice for both factions; Autobots and Decepticons didn’t differ in that regard.

Bluestreak’s spark ran cold and his door wings slanted for the thought. _You can’t have my sparklet_ and his fingers clenched around his mug like he would around his sniper’s trigger. _Won’t let you take him away. Not even if I have to hide him from you all._ Maybe that wasn’t fair. _Things could be different now that the war is over_ , but Bluestreak wasn’t sure and wasn’t going to take any risks. No one knew his secret and that was how he was going to keep things.

The vid-screen hanging from the ceiling caught Bluestreak’s attention again and distracted him from those dark thoughts. It was positioned over the ration station and was still showing the local news station; already well into the morning’s report.

“Hey,” Bluestreak called over the noise of the crowd. “Somebody turn up the news!” and then he flinched and rubbed his sore throat.

A moment later and a sound-explosion burst through the hidden speakers. Scores of mechs cringed and clapped their hands over their audials until the sound dialed back to something a little more sane.

“Aw — not more news!” shouted Huffer. “Somebody turn on the movie channel!” He leapt up on his cot and peered around the room, trying to locate which bot currently had the remote. The channel would only stay on the news until the exact moment that Huffer wrestled the remote away from whoever was trying to hide it.

Across the room, Cliffjumper had the same idea. “Forget movies — we’ve seen them all! Turn on the sports channel!”

“Seen all those too,” Siren shouted back and then the room exploded into noisy pandemonium as mechs argued over which stale channel replaying mummified entertainment was best.

 _I need an apartment_ and Bluestreak sighed. He longed for some peace and quiet, not to mention control over his environment.

Then a breaking news report caught his attention. “Alright folks, looks like things are starting to happen,” said Circuit, reporting live from downtown Iacon. “This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for!”

Bluestreak leaned towards the screen. The news report was correct; today could be the most important day in Cybertronian history. The powers that be had promised to reactivate the ravaged planetary core and re-ignite the Well of Allsparks since Megatron had officially taken control of Cybertron.

“They’re really going to do it?” asked Bumblebee, perched at the end of Gear’s cot. He’d told the security drones that he was visiting his friends at the shelter, but everyone knew why he was actually there.

Bluestreak nodded. “Megatron said they were close to restoring the core. I saw it during an interview on the news awhile back.” That interview had been broadcast weeks ago and true to his word, Megatron had done his best with what he had.

Today was the test.

Bluestreak found himself holding his vents as Wheeljack and several lesser scientists made terse, but hopeful comments into Circuit’s microphone and then took their places. Finally the moment arrived and a hush settled over the crowd at both locations. Bluestreak glanced around to see everyone had stopped their scurrying, their optics glued to the screen.

They didn’t have long to wait and then hope was dashed. There was a _pop_ and then the melodious sounds of technology committing ritual seppuku all over the stage. A techie screamed, some assistants fainted, and behind Bluestreak the shelter population exploded back into a scurried frenzy as the hoped-for miracle failed to materialize, which meant everyone still had to show up for work after all.

“Called it,” said Bumblebee, but even he sounded glum.

“What a disappointing outcome,” Circuit shouted into the camera. “As we all know, without the Well of Allsparks there is no hope of rebuilding our population using our world’s natural means — hot spots.”

At that exact moment, Cliffjumper managed to snag the remote from a scowling Tailgate. He then changed the channel to a local sports broadcaster, which was showing reruns of ancient matches that everyone had seen a million times before. The current one was a game of Cube with Bumblebee riding around on a pilfered game cube, hanging on for dear life.

“I love this one,” laughed Bumblebee, for obvious reasons. He grinned merrily as groans broke out across the shelter, none louder than Bluestreak.

Then Huffer made his big move, tackling Cliffjumper and snagging the remote. He wasted no time and the channel changed again, this time to an old network special series called “Throng of Demons” in which a huge cast of unique characters had to take on a legion of demons each named after the Cybertronian alphabet, which killed off main characters in unexpected ways. It had taken Cybertron by storm until the last season when the plot was abandoned for a pile of rotting old clichés.

The shelter exploded into uproar again and mechs threw things at the vid-screen in spasms of disappointment. “Never forget” said somebot solemnly and then tossed an empty polish container at the screen where ‘Demon M’ was chasing after the current protagonist.

The hate was real.

“I really need an apartment,” Bluestreak sighed.

“You have to have credits for an apartment,” said Huffer, stomping over. He was holding the remote like it was made of energon and then grinned at Gears. “We’re moving into ours next cycle.”

Bumblebee congratulated them both, then turned to Bluestreak and asked, “You have a job, right?”

“I haven’t found anything yet,” Bluestreak admitted, sinking a little deeper into his oil-stained cot. “Not much out there for a former sniper.”

“You need to think outside the box,” said Huffer.

Gears nodded. “I got a hauling job with the city. I help clear rubble and haul heavy equipment to different building sites. I could put in a word for you…”

Bluestreak shook his helm. “That’s not for me.” Forgetting himself, he pressed a hand over his midsection without thinking, but fortunately no one noticed. “I don’t have the frame-type for hauling or building.”

“Don’t give up,” Gears insisted. “You’ll find something — I did.”

Bumblebee nodded and then his optics brightened. “I could talk to Optimus for you. See if any of the old gang might be able to find a spot for you down at our community center.”

And there it was… the real reason Bumblebee had visited. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to coax former Autobots back into the fold. Ironhide was much the same, volunteering his time as a security guard at the shelter so to have access to the mechs there. It was far less sinister then it sometimes felt; just a way to get the Autobots into a centralized location and closer to Optimus Prime.

Bluestreak hesitated, but then refused. “I’m okay here, Bee. Thanks for the offer, though.” He was careful to remain as polite as possible. He didn’t want to burn any bridges, but the truth was he’d never consider rooming with any of his comrades from the war.

Bumblebee’s offer seemed genuine enough, but living in the sprawling apartment building turned community center that Optimus Prime had renamed Autobot High Command came with certain expectations and repercussions.

 _It’s not worth it_.

***

Bluestreak took longer to leave the shelter then he’d intended. He ended up dawdling and delaying until he couldn’t anymore; he really did need more rations, a good job, and an apartment. The weak sunlight from the distant star was well overhead as he stepped through the shelter doors and entered the world outside.

Bluestreak checked his vent filters as the ruinous clouds above were still raining soot, though the sky was brightening a little every day. His pedes sank into inches-deep ash.

Iacon was still a great ruin. Most of the city was in shambles and only the city center had power. The light was growing though; the Constructicons and various repair crews were hard at work expanding the city’s livable reaches. Light spiralled out from the city center like grasping fingers, clawing into the dark gloom of a post-apocalyptic hell.

Bluestreak transformed and headed deeper into the city, his headlights helping cut through the gloom. His tires scattered the soft ash and left billowing clouds behind him. He transformed back into robot mode and walked the last few blocks out from the city center, wanting to stretch his struts. 

The cultural center was bustling with mechs coming and going. There were various stores and cafés scattered through the massive building, the smell of fresh energon wafting on the breeze of active frames.

Bluestreak stared longingly at the chairs and tables of the nearest oil café. He would love to just take a seat and relax with a hot drink. He sucked in a vent and checked his credit account again… still completely empty.

Like most Transformers, Bluestreak had his bank accounts with the only galactic bank willing to accept and lend to Cybertronians, which was owned by the Quintesson. After annexing Cybertron, the Quintesson had frozen all Cybertronian bank accounts and seized any assets within their reach; their justification being that anything a slave possessed belonged to their owners. It was a miserable state of financial ruin that most Transformers found themselves in, with Bluestreak as utterly destitute as any of them.

There _was_ some hope. Ultra Magnus was in the process of suing the Quintesson banking system and his case seemed airtight, though it might take years before any credits were returned to their rightful owners.

That meant little to Bluestreak right now. Energon outside of daily rations was imported in at great expense and had to be purchased. Even worse, the little sign above the register warned that the tables were for ‘paying customers only’ and there were no mechs present he knew well enough to sit with and so he sighed and turned away.

Bluestreak wandered into the temp agency office and hung back. There were lines of mechs looking for work out the door. Some of them eyed him warily, worried he might try and cut the lines and so Blue made sure to stay back and check the online listings. He tabbed through them but saw nothing he was either qualified for or dared take for his condition.

 _This is going just like the last time_.

Discouraged, Bluestreak abandoned the city center and transformed in the street to leave. He drove under the lights, mindful of his energy levels. When he reached the last lighted street he returned to robot mode and walked the length until he reached the end; beyond were darkened streets and alley ways.

 _Could try my luck at some scavenging_ , Bluestreak thought, but the melancholy of the afternoon was weighing heavily upon him. He was just about to head back to the shelter and mope when a kindly voice caught his attention, drawing him into a nearby alleyway.

Beachcomber was on his knees, peering around the foundations of a collapsed building. “Aw come on,” he coaxed softly, his hand searching the dark crevice. “It’s alright — I’m here to help.”

Bluestreak cocked his helm curiously and stepped closer.

Then Beachcomber managed to snag what he’d cornered. “Gotcha!” and he pulled back, carefully freeing a battered and fluttering borb-bot, who was too coated with soot to fly. He held the little mechanimal aloft like it was made of gold-pressed latinum. The little borb-bot was determined to survive and kept pecking at Beachcomber’s hand to try and free its rotund self, with dubious results.

“My dude!” said Beachcomber, his smile threatening to crack his face. “It’s not so bad! You want my help, trust me. Things out here are going to get worse before they get better.”

 _Peck-peck-peck_ insisted the borb-bot.

“Hey,” said Bluestreak, directing his vocalizer from his internal channel back to being audible. He peered curiously at the uppity little creature. “What are you going to do with him?”

Beachcomber waved distractedly at Bluestreak, still crooning at the little borb-bot. He wiped more of the soot away to reveal the bright metal feathers beneath; a bright yellow with red highlights. Enthralled with his find, Beachcomber didn’t answer Blue’s question and instead just transformed and drove off with the outraged borb-bot cheeping at him from his back seat.

Bluestreak watched him go, waving goodbye as he disappeared around the corner. He shrugged to himself, but the distraction had lifted his mood. He took a few steps closer to the edge of the light.

 _The city’s already been scavenged through over the eons,_ thought Bluestreak, his hands resting on his hips. _I could scrounge around for hours and not find anything useful to eat or trade. Not to mention might be dangerous…_

Bluestreak glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the bright city center. He was out of luck to lounge at a bar or café and so the only other option was to return to his cot at the shelter, watching shows he’d already seen a thousand-thousand times.

Scavenging _would_ be more interesting. Decision made, Bluestreak pulled his sniper rifle out of his subspace — the only thing he’d never hock for credits — and shouldered the weapon. Then he stepped out of the lighted reaches and into the dark of the fallout clouds.

Bluestreak turned on his headlights and began entering the closest soot-coated buildings that were still standing. The heavy layer of ash made everything look the same. At first he took care to avoid any building that was leaning or looked otherwise unstable, but grew bolder when the safer options proved empty. Step after step, he wandered carefully, keeping alert to any dangers, though none appeared. Next he found a few office buildings that were abandoned, but all of the equipment left behind was too damaged to bother with.

Ranging further out, Blue found an abandoned apartment complex. Half of it was collapsed and the rest was heavily picked through. He found evidence of mechs sleeping rough; several sleeping pallets that had been recently used. Some might still be in use and so Blue left the area quickly, leaving them behind.

Nearly an hour later, a disappointed Bluestreak climbed a rubble pile and stood there, peering at the bright lights of the city center back the way he’d came. Debris pattered down the pile as he shifted his weight. He considered going back, but a rustle outside a bomb-shattered building nearby caught his attention.

 _Glitch rat_ , Bluestreak thought as the scrawny creature saw him looking and bolted away. _First one I’ve seen in a while. Things are fragged up even for them, should be hundreds of them in an area like this._ The rat was too fast to be seen properly; a dark streak against a darker background.

Bluestreak turned in place, shining his headlights while following the rat, which vanished into a hole under the next set of buildings. Then his headlights caught on a white shape partially buried in the rubble.

Curious, Bluestreak headed over and pulled the little box free, his first real find of the night. _It’s an advanced medical kit — intact and unused!_ His door-wings flared happily. He wasn’t trained enough to use something like this, but the value of it was unmistakable. _It won’t be any trouble to trade this kit for some credits!_

Bluestreak supressed a cheer and tucked the kit into his subspace for safe keeping. This was the first useful thing he’d found in the hour he’d been hunting and so he decided to end his scavenging trip there. He transformed and headed back towards the city center, the multi-colored lights beckoning him back to civilization. He reached the first lighted street with a sigh of relief and then burned rubber towards the city cultural center.

Bluestreak was several blocks in when his optic caught on a small sign ‘Southside Medical Clinic’ hanging above a run-down office block. Hand-written under the sign was ‘trades welcome — privacy guaranteed’ and he slammed on his brakes.

Transforming, Bluestreak walked over to the clinic and peeked into the windows. It looked clean and welcoming on the inside. He wracked his processer trying to guess who was running it.

 _Not Ratchet_ , thought Bluestreak with a little frown. _He’s running the City Center Medical Clinic in the cultural center._

Ratchet’s walk-in clinic was always bustling with mechs coming and going. Privacy was not really possible with the sheer number of patients there, but for Bluestreak privacy was everything right now. Not to mention the little problem that Ratchet was Optimus Prime’s closest friend and supporter. He was sure to run into Prime there if he became a regular patient. _I don’t dare go there for any checkups, not if I don’t want everyone knowing why I’m there._

Bluestreak took another step closer. _Hook has a private practice for credits and First Aid is working under Ratchet, so it’s not either of them..._

Curiosity getting the better of him, Bluestreak finally just took the plunge. He entered the clinic and looked around, spotting a neatly organized patient services desk. He headed towards it as a little chime announced him. A moment later and he had his answer.

“Can I help you?” asked Knock Out, coming out of a private room. He was disinfecting a diagnostic tool and his optics took in Bluestreak, noting no obvious damage that needed immediate attention.

Bluestreak opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he remembered to redirect his voice and coughed to cover his gaffe. He pointed at the door sign. “Does the privacy guarantee cost extra? I have a condition that I don’t want getting out.”

“Privacy is guaranteed no matter the issue,” Knock Out assured him, then lifted an optic brow. “You didn’t get bit by anything formerly living, did you?”

“No,” said Bluestreak with a small smile. “Less exciting than that, but I do need a full checkup with no questions asked.” He pulled out the scavenged medical kit and knew he was in business by the way Knock Out’s optics brightened when he spilled the contents out onto the counter.

An hour later and Bluestreak left the clinic with a smile, a detailed printout of his sparkling's first medical scans tucked into his subspace. He even had a handful of credits and a second checkup booked with no addition charge.

 _My sparklet’s going to have a seeker frame_ , thought Bluestreak, his spark dancing for sheerest joy.


	4. Uncertain Tidings

Bluestreak was broke again.

The handful of credits had lasted a few days and once again Bluestreak found himself standing at the edge of Iacon city. He stood hesitantly on the lighted side, peering into the darker reaches. His pockets were empty and his fuel tank was needy — thanks to his developing seekerlet — and so he was preparing to brave the unknown to scavenge.

It was early morning, but because of the persistent ash clouds in the upper atmosphere the gloom was pervading. At Bluestreak’s back were the bright lights of Iacon’s city center. Just ahead lay the transition between light and dark. Blue took a step forward, planting his pede warily into the dark.

“Where are you going?” asked Thundercracker.

Bluestreak startled and his door wings flared. “Oh, hey!” and he looked up to see Thundercracker perched on a rooftop above him. "I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously,” said Thundercracker with a smile.

“Thinking about scavenging a little,” Bluestreak said, waving at the darkened city ruins. “What about you?”

Thundercracker looked up at the darkened sky, his optics wistful. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with myself. The others have been talking about moving back to Vos and striking out on our own. They… want me to lead them.”

Bluestreak tilted his helm. “I thought Vos was in worse shape than Iacon?”

“It’s just talk,” said Thundercracker.

Bluestreak watched as Thundercracker dropped down from his perch, clouds of dust floating up around his legs. Standing there, he looked down at Blue and his optics seemed warmer than before.

“Do you remember what I said before, about us not being anything?”

Bluestreak felt an electric tingle of excitement and swallowed carefully. “Yeah, I remember.”

Thundercracker frowned and his optics unfocused. It was clear to Blue that he was deciding how best to say what he wanted to say and so Blue waited patiently, though his throat grew hotter as his comm to nowhere exploded with anxious words.

“I would like — that is, if _you_ would like — for us to be friends,” said Thundercracker. He threw his helm up and then awkwardly offered his hand.

Bluestreak’s door wings lifted for delight and he didn’t hesitate. There were so many reasons why a relationship with this seeker was important to him. Eventually he’d have to come clean to Thundercracker, but the time was not now, not yet. The opportunity to build a real friendship was an excellent first step though, and so he took the offered hand with a smile.

Thundercracker released his hand and looked relieved. It was clearly a moment he had been practising for. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the highest capital spire, where Megatron and his cabinet dwelled.

“I’ll let you know if anything happens about Vos,” said Thundercracker suddenly, his optics intense and then he smiled at Blue and took to the air.

“Wait,” mumbled Bluestreak to himself, confused. He watched as Thundercracker transformed and jetted away. “What did I just agree to?”

Thundercracker vanished into the cloud layer.

Bluestreak stared for a while after, thinking over and over about what had just happened. _I have to tell him about our seekerlet at some point_ , he thought, but the time was not now. Not when there was so much uncertainty in the world.

Turning, Bluestreak was just about to go scavenging when a group of mechs down the street started shouting and pointing at something. It piqued his curiosity and he hurried over.

“What’s up?” Bluestreak asked Sideswipe, who was staring disinterestedly up at something in the distance. He was leaning against a building, waiting for his brother to come join him for a patrol.

“There’s a turbo hawk up there,” said Sideswipe, glancing up with his optics to point out the direction, though he otherwise didn’t move. His arms remained folded over his front.

Bluestreak followed his gesture and quickly realized the problem. The turbo hawk’s legs were tangled up in some cords that were wrapped around a weather pole. The hawk was struggling mightily, but couldn’t free himself.

“Wow,” said Bluestreak, stepping away from the wall and towards the gathering crowd. “That’s pretty high up.”

“Can anybody fly up there and let him loose?” somebot yelled, but help was already on the way.

Rescue came in the form of a blur of bright white plates and shouldered swords. A determined Drift climbed the weather pole hand over hand. He moved with grace and speed, quickly reaching the struggling turbo hawk. He reached out his hand while dodging determined pecks to try and untangle the cantankerous hawk.

The crowd cheered at Drift and shouted advice and warnings — turbo hawks could give lovely bites with their great hooked beaks — and then gasped when the hawk tore himself free too early. He flew away at speed with his feet still entangled.

The crowd burst into unhappy chatter. “Oh no,” cried Bumblebee from somewhere in their midst. “Now the poor thing is going to starve!”

Bluestreak stared, his spark sinking as the mechanical bird flapped higher into the air. Then he grabbed his shouldered sniper rifle and peered down the scope, orienting the hawk in his sight. He sucked in a breath and placed his finger on the trigger.

Drift, after jumping down to land next to Blue, saw what he was planning and lifted a hand in alarm. “Oh, now hang on—”

Bluestreak double-checked his target, whispered a prayer to Primus as he always did when comrade’s lives rested on his aim, and then squeezed the trigger.

The shot flew true.

The pinpoint blast severed the cord at a critical junction and freed the turbo-hawk’s legs. The great bird squawked for surprise and circled in the air, wiggling his legs and claws. Then it let loose a proud screm of victory — you’d think he’d rescued himself by the way his feathers poofed up — and then vanished into the cloud cover.

“Wow,” said Drift with a grin, his hands on his hips. “What a shot!”

Bluestreak smiled triumphantly and answered “least I could do” and then ducked his helm, shy for the praise. “The wildlife is worse off than we are — wish I could do more.”

Drift nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Bluestreak as if seeing him in a new light. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and then strode away, but opened a comm-line to another bot as he went. He kept glancing back at Blue as he began speaking into it.

Bluestreak, oblivious, shouldered his rifle and blushed for all the congratulations from the crowd. Bumblebee jumped up and clapped him on the back and then wandered off as the crowd began to disperse, revealing a terse figure standing with his hands full of pamphlets.

“Blessed are the creatures of Primus,” said the mech and Bluestreak made the mistake of looking up at him. Their optics met and an instant later Bluestreak received a religious pamphlet as a reward.

“Uh, thanks,” said Bluestreak, stepping back and away. He didn’t know the mech, though he recognized the symbol on the pamphlet as belonging to the “Circle of Light” which was the dominant religious group.

“Brother,” said the strange mech, “we find ourselves fallen on hard times. The Circle of Light protects the planet from all who would harm it, but our efforts require the support of mechs such as yourself,” and the stranger offered his arm panel in a request for donation.

Bluestreak hesitated and then shrugged at the mech. “Sorry, I don’t have any credits to give,” and then stepped away.

Bluestreak turned his back and thumbed through the pamphlet and then frowned at the proud symbol on the front. _They claimed they were charged by Primus himself to guard the core of Cybertron. No one is allowed into the deepest parts of the core without their permission._

 _But now the core is dying_ , thought Bluestreak, his door wings slanting and it seemed to him that they’d done a terrible job protecting the planet over the eons. _If I was a core guardian I would have been fired already._

Bluestreak glanced back to see Star Saber parting the dwindling crowd. Blue didn’t know him, but recognized him for his distinctive helm and fearsome reputation as a religious zealot. He watched as Star Saber called for his disciple, turning away with the mech trailing after him, the strange mech still extorting all in his path to donate.

 _Everybody needs credits these days_ , thought Bluestreak, which reminded him he should check the job listings again.

Bluestreak looked back towards the cultural center, but dreaded the task. It was so disheartening to leave empty-handed and so he decided instead to continue with his original plan to scavenge. He was just about to leave when a text came through his comms.

Smokescreen> Hey, where are you?

Bluestreak started to type a reply when the next text came through.

Smokescreen> Didn’t forget our little get together, did you?

“Oh frag,” said Bluestreak aloud, straightening with flaring door wings. “I sure did forget — and now I don’t have any credits to buy a drink.”

Bluestreak flinched and his fingers hovered over his arm panel, not sure how best to bow out. It would be so awkward and uncomfortable to watch everyone else drink while pretending he wasn’t hungry.

Smokescreen> Ha you did. I still owe you that drink, so get your aft down here!

Bluestreak’s entire everything brightened and his door wings popped up with an audible _ping_.

> On my way!

***

The best café in the cultural center was called ‘Bright Brews Oil Factory’ and not only because they had a better grade of energon then the others, but because they had styled themselves in homage of Maccadam's Old Oil House; free market energon, tasteful decor with dimmed lighting, and plenty of comfy tables. Such was the lure of home that the place was always packed and bustling with happy chatter, creaking chairs, and good music.

Tonight was no exception.

“Hey, Blue!” called Smokescreen, waving his fellow Praxian over. “We saved a chair for you!”

Bluestreak grinned and took the offered seat, next to Smokescreen and across from Prowl, who was sitting next to a wary-looking Barricade.

“—you don’t have to participate if you find the company too droll,” said Prowl to Barricade. His calm tone and the easy flex of his door wings suggested he didn’t mind either way.

“It’s fine,” grumbled Barricade, hunching his shoulders. “I just thought there would be more of us. Praxis was a huge city.”

“That’s kinda to be expected when your huge city goes up in a fireball,” said Smokescreen with a smirk.

Bluestreak frowned instantly, his optics turning inward in a rush of unwanted memory mere days after he’d been first batched; raging fires and people burning and horrible screams.

“That’s okay!” said Bluestreak too loudly, another outburst to derail painful thoughts. The others side-eyed him, but thankfully the server arrived and the chaos of ordering fuel distracted everyone.

True to his word, Smokescreen asked what Bluestreak wanted, to which Blue coyly replied “the biggest thing on the menu ‘cause killing that Quint two miles out to save your aft was the hardest shot I ever took” and Smoky laughed and ordered him the Royal Rocket, which came in a monstrous cup complete with curly straw, along with one for himself and then Smoky clapped Blue on his back between his wings and thanked him for his life, and Blue couldn’t have been happier.

“Welcome to our first Praxian Survivors Gathering,” announced Prowl, sitting up straight, or at least straighter then he had been, which was pretty damned straight. “The plan is to meet every week in an informal capacity in the interests of retaining our distinct cultural heritage.” 

Bluestreak’s frame settled at Prowl’s familiar no-nonsense tone. But Prowl’s voice and manner were too formal for the occasion and Blue sensed the others felt the same. He watched as Prowl read off his schedule pad like he would at a meeting and then asked, “Should we start with a round of introductions—”

“No!” exclaimed everyone else.

“So how is everyone?” asked Bluestreak to break the ice. Introductions were pointless; they all knew each other.

Well, except for Barricade.

“I’m doing fine, great,” Barricade snapped, feeling out of place and Blue could tell he hated the awkwardness. “I got a job with a private security gig and my own place.” He took a long pull from his drink and added “I’m only here because otherwise I’d have to go to a Primus damned team-building exercise because Krok is needy as frag and I’d rather waste time with you losers” and then he waved for someone else to talk.

The other Praxians gave Barricade the stink-eye, which he happily ignored. The mech was a hard-ass with a bad reputation but everyone was trying hard to forget the past. And the rushed way Barricade had added the last bit suggested to Bluestreak that while it may be true he was shrinking his duties, he did seem to want to widen his social circles a bit, which was all good with Blue.

Smokescreen laughed and smacked the table. “Things are finally looking up for me,” he announced with a charming grin. “I’m a junior in the diplomatic corps thanks to a good word dropped in the right audials,” and Smokey gestured with his chin at Prowl with a happy gleam in his optics, “oh, and I run a betting pool as a side hustle — you should check it out.”

Prowl smiled faintly and spoke next. “I’m part of Megatron’s chief of staff and a personal adviser for foreign affairs. The work is… reasonable.”

Barricade gave him an accusing look. “Thought you were double dipping as Optimus Prime’s chief adviser at his stupid High Command?”

“Just the word on the street,” Barricade added.

Prowl nodded and seemed to take no offense at the accusation. “I also function as an intermediary between Megatron and Optimus Prime; the latter whom I have consistently advised against taking separatist actions. It’s not immodest to say I am largely the reason things are as stable as they are between the former factions,” and Prowl frowned down at his drink, the topic clearly weighing heavily upon him.

“And we appreciate that,” said Smokescreen loudly, raising his drink in a toast.

Then everyone rounded on Bluestreak who blushed. “Not much to say. Still at the shelter, but I’m keeping an optic out for a good job. Something will turn up eventually.”

Their drink order arrived and Bluestreak took a sip with a shiver of sheer delight. He settled back and soaked in the shameless gossip, which was what the conversation quickly spiralled down to once the standard flak of jobs and weather had passed.

“Hey,” said Barricade, taking the opportunity to shake Prowl down on current matters, “So last night I was supposed to escort Soundwave to a meeting with Megatron, but he never came down. I ended up standing out in street like a glit for hours. I’m supposed to pick him up again tonight, any idea what's up with him? I'm only asking because I'm not looking forward to being shafted again. That’s not like him, you know?”

“I know,” said Prowl with a shrug. “Soundwave took the loss of his cassettes very hard. Some days are better than others. I know Megatron is trying to convince him to move to the capital spire, but he is grief-stricken and not thinking clearly.”

“He’s acting weird,” translated Barricade crassly, taking the confirmation as assurance that he was likely to be stood up again. He glared down at the bottom of his now-empty drink.

“Grieving,” Prowl insisted gently.

Smokescreen leaned towards Barricade. “Speaking of weird— you said you’re working in the security sector. What’s up with those alarms that keep going off on the north side?”

“Slicers,” Barricade answered with distaste. “The worst I’ve seen out past the city limits so far. Fragging things are feral and hunting; never seen so many of them out in the open before.”

Bluestreak nodded, remembering what a nightmare the cannibal tribe could be. “I was stationed out at Thunderhead Pass for years. They would sometimes come ranging in, following my trail no matter how well I’d hidden my tracks.”

“Things should get better once the rest of the Resistance returns to Cybertron,” Smokescreen offered, draining his glass. “The more mechs we have on the ground the better things will be for us.”

Prowl finished his drink and waved at the server to bring him another. He glanced over at Bluestreak, remembered what he said about being in the shelter, and then ordered another drink for him, too.

Bluestreak gave Prowl a thankful smile.

“Especially since most of those mechs are Decepticon warriors,” said Barricade with some amusement, relishing the slightly uncomfortable shifting of his fellows. “Most of the heavy hitters, Deathsaurus’ crew, aw hell, even the DJD are coming back. The ‘cons will outnumber the ‘bots tenfold.”

“There are numerous unaffiliated mechs returning as well,” Prowl pointed out, accepting his new drink from the server and handing over the second to an eager Bluestreak.

“What, a few thousand?” and Smokescreen shook his helm. “That’s actually not so many if you think about it. I wonder where we’re going to house them for the short term? The city is still such a wreck.”

“The shelters are packed,” Bluestreak said while stirring his new drink. His energy levels were soaring to thrilling new heights; he hadn’t had so much to drink for literal ages.

“I know a bunch of mechs are sleeping out in the rough,” said Barricade, his optics narrowing. “Seems a bad idea — too dangerous, though I get the need for some peace and quiet.”

Prowl shifted carefully in his seat. “We still have apartments available—”

“Eh,” said everyone else.

Bluestreak coughed politely. “So speaking of more room, what’s going on with Vos?” he asked between sips, which had everyone’s helms turning. Blue blinked at their sharp response. “I heard some rumours the seekers want to reclaim the city?”

“Yeah,” said Smokescreen, and he shared a look with Prowl. “I guess they approached you too?”

Bluestreak frowned, feeling his spark sink.

“Just — be careful, Blue,” said Smokescreen, setting his drink down carefully.

“Be careful of _what_?”

“…”

“So,” said Barricade, taking the lead since the others kept looking at him, “one of the first things Decepticons do as a rule once they are sworn in” and he tapped his old Decepticon sigil, “is report to the medics for modifications — weapons modifications. Redundant systems are removed to make room for guns, guns, and more guns.”

Bluestreak blinked. “But what does that have to do with—”

“—none of us have gestation chambers,” said Barricade, with no regret. “They are one of the first things removed and as you know, they can’t be replaced. Now with the core being irreparable—”

“That is _far_ from certain,” said Prowl, interrupting. “The scientific community is hard at work trying to save it. We just don’t know enough about how the planet generates energon to repair it yet.”

“Fine, whatever,” snapped Barricade, waving away the distraction. “The point is, for the foreseeable future, we are only expanding our forces in one way and _some_ mechs are damned twitchy about it.”

Bluestreak blinked and then looked at Smokescreen.

“What he’s saying is that seekers are particular about their, well, bloodlines I guess you could say,” said Smokescreen, inclining his helm to the painting on the wall of a seeker in flight; their forms unique and distinctive.

Prowl nodded and added, “They can interface with anyone, but if they want their specialized processors and flight forms to carry on, they need mechs with similarly specialized frames and genetically recessed CNA that allows those traits to reliably appear in the new generation.”

Bluestreak looked down at the table, then back over his shoulder at his door wings and realization dawned.

“Praxians are the only option for retaining a pure enough seeker bloodline,” explained Barricade with a snort. He looked down at himself with a touch of regret. “Kind of wish I still had those systems. I could’ve made a fortune charging those air-heads as a surrogate.”

“Oh,” said Bluestreak, his processor churning.

“There _is_ some power there,” said Prowl, touching his chin thoughtfully. “You were laughing earlier about us being outnumbered, but it seems we hold the means of production, as it were.”

“Oh, you want to be careful with that,” said Barricade with a laugh, his gaze suddenly predatory. “That’s a turbo rabbit hole you might not want to go down.”

Smokescreen laughed uncomfortably and then changed the topic back to the weather, noting the dust storms in the Sea of Rust were causing the fallout to last longer than it should.

There was much more said and the topics ranged here and there, but Bluestreak didn’t process much more of it. He sipped his drink — a sweet blend with a rich tangy aftertaste — and kept thinking about what Thundercracker had said. He wasn’t sure what it meant anymore.

***

It was late afternoon when Bluestreak finally left the café.

Outside the cultural center, the streets were busy with mechs coming and going about their business. Large flags with the standard Cybertronian symbol fluttered in the sooty breeze while the weak star above was trying to peek through the thick cloud layer; brightening the thinner billows that turned the sky into a patchwork of orange.

Bluestreak stood in the middle of the sidewalk while deciding where to go next. _Too early to go back to the shelter_ , he thought. His energy levels were brimming and his mood was brighter for the company and after waving goodbye at Prowl, he turned and decided to get back to scavenging.

 _Hopefully my good luck will hold_ , and Bluestreak transformed into vehicle mode and left the lighted streets behind. His previous efforts were hit and miss; many mechs had the same idea and so the areas near the city were well picked through. There was better luck to be had further out, but leaving the civilized areas could be dangerous.

Normally Bluestreak stayed closer to the city for safety reasons, but his circuits were brimming with energy and that made him feel adventurous. Soon he ran out of usable road.

Transforming into robot mode, Blue ranged further out than ever before, almost to the city limits. The damage was more extensive here, but the chance of finding something useful among the rubble was higher.

After an hour Bluestreak finally found a few useful tidbits, worth enough for a few drinks at the café. He picked up the cracked data pad, the best thing he’d found so far.

 _Need a bigger haul then this_ , Blue thought as he sub-spaced the pad and looked around for a better spot to poke through. 

Then Bluestreak spotted a toppled two-story condo and decided to pick around there. He’d just slipped through a toppled pile of slabs — what was left of a loading station at the back of a hardware depot — when a clattering noise just ahead gave him pause.

Bluestreak peeked around the corner of the abandoned building. Straight ahead was a small band of slicers, lanky and vicious. They were so named for their habit of welding razors and saw blades to their frames, not to mention their long, bladed fingers.

 _Not tangling with these unless I have to_ , Bluestreak thought. His fingers clenched around his sniper rifle and he glanced down at his midsection. He was in no condition to tangle with enemies like them. _Weird though… why are they running away from the city?_

Bluestreak watched as the group fled around a pile of debris. They seemed weirdly frantic. Their gibbering and clanking footfalls quickly faded. He remained hidden for several kliks after, just to be sure.

Finally Bluestreak stepped out from his hiding space. _I don’t want any trouble._ He spotted a climbable building nearby and decided to get a better look at his surroundings before continuing on. _Don’t want to get caught out._ He was almost to the building when an odd gnawing sound had his back up.

_What is that?_

Bluestreak dropped to a crouch and peered through his scope, tracing the gnarly noise. It was a slicer, but it was eating another slicer? _Is that why the other slicers fled? They are afraid of this one?_

Taking a few steps closer, Bluestreak startled when his foot crunched down on an empty ener-jolt can with a loud crackle.

_Oh frag._

The feasting slicer shot straight up and whirled in place. It stared at him with bloodshot optics and a wide rictus grin, made all the worse for the gore dripping down its front.

 _It’s a zombie_ and Bluestreak felt a rush of electric fear down his back. _We didn’t get them all in the last volley and that’s why the slicers are moving around so much! That’s why they are so afraid! They are being chased down by the zombies!_

In the moment that Blue took his eye from his scope the infected slicer had closed the distance between them by half and was charging toward him. Its mouth was gaping in a wide grin; the signature mark of the Quintesson’s viral superweapon.

Bluestreak yelped and stumbled back then held his ground as he knew better than to try and run. The zombie was faster — it would take him. It would never stop chasing him and he knew better than to lead it back to the city center.

Bluestreak took aim instead and fired round after round and the last shot dropped the monster with little room to spare. Helm blown to bits, the zombie fell face-first onto the ground.

Throwing himself back, Bluestreak rolled and got to his feet. He stood and stared fearfully at the fallen corpse, watching as the dead limbs twitched eerily and then finally went still. This wasn't the first time he'd faced down an infected corpse before. The Red Rust was a similar sort of horror, though the infected bots weren't malicious and never chased anyone down. This viral horror was animating the dead and sending them hurtling after the living. 

The darkness settled.

Shocked for the scare, Bluestreak turned and fled back the way he’d come. Breathless, he opened an emergency comm line to his old commander, which was answered without delay.

“This is Onslaught, report.”

Bluestreak was too frightened to mind himself and so exploded into a rush of words, but thanks to his medication he was far more focused. “I was out scavenging at the city’s edge at the north side near the old refinery station just a few streets away when I came across some slicers and at first I thought they were coming to raid but then they scattered because they were actually running away from something and it turns out one of the slicers was eating another one and I was going to investigate—”

“Focus,” interrupted Onslaught, wanting him to get to the point so that if he needed to raise an alarm he wasn’t wasting valuable time.

Bluestreak swallowed thickly. “The slicer eating the other slicer was infected, sir. Same thing as we saw outside Iacon — it’s the Quintesson virus. It’s spreading outside the city.”

Onslaught’s voice went harsh, a sure sign he was rattled. “Are you absolutely sure—”

“Yes sir,” said Bluestreak, equally rattled. He gave the coordinates for the corpse he’d left behind and at that point he heard Onslaught’s muffled curse as he knew Bluestreak wasn’t one to give inaccurate reports, no matter what mechs unfamiliar with him might think.

Onslaught repeated the intel to someone else and then returned to Blue’s comms, sounding discouraged. “Thanks for the warning. I’d really hoped we’d wiped them out.”

“No such luck,” said Bluestreak.

Onslaught grunted. “Keep this to yourself for now. No point in causing a panic tonight. We’ll increase aerial surveillance and security measures — the city is still the safest place to be, alright?”

“Yes sir,” said Bluestreak with a sigh. He cut the comms line and focused on getting back to the city proper. He was already in the middle of typing out a warning to his friends. After considering carefully, he followed orders and deleted his messages — all except for Prowl.

Bluestreak sent a series of rushed texts on a special secured line because he knew he could trust Prowl with something like this. Prowl had never, ever betrayed him.

> Zombie slicer shot tonight  
> I’m okay but kinda scared  
> Onslaught said don’t say anything ‘cause panic  
> Don’t rat me out, ok

As soon as Bluestreak reached a reasonably intact roadway he transformed and burned rubber back towards Iacon. He had just reached a lighted street when he finally got a response back from Prowl.

> Understood.  
> Appreciate the intel, will be discreet.  
> It’s going to be okay.

Bluestreak let out the breath he was holding and focused on driving. He felt a rush of relief as he left the frightening dark behind and drove back into the bright lights of Iacon.


End file.
